


As Yes to If

by daisynorbury



Series: Love is to yes [1]
Category: Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle, nothing false and possible is love (e.e. cummings poem)
Genre: Episode: s04e01 The Devil's Foot, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Victorian Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-10
Updated: 2016-03-10
Packaged: 2018-05-25 21:05:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6210133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daisynorbury/pseuds/daisynorbury
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Leave for your own sake if you must, but on no account shall you leave for mine. I can imagine no sadder outcome of the insight you have gained tonight."</p><p>Epilogue to "The Devil's Foot", and includes spoilers for that episode. It languished in my files for years, and yesterday it was Callicat49's lovely user icon that inspired me to finally finish it. The title's from my favorite piece of e.e. cummings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As Yes to If

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Callicat49](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Callicat49/gifts).



> https://daisyfornost.tumblr.com/

"The fair sex is your department, Watson," he said to me once, and I say that the vice of brooding is his, this afternoon notwithstanding. I am not one to dwell on the misfortunes of the past, nor worry overmuch on those that may lie before me, but today... today was beastly. 

I had thought him dead. He was dead. After three years had passed, though I was not yet (and might never have been) quite myself again, I was at least growing accustomed to the idea. I had begun to adjust. I'd made a good start at putting my life back in order, getting on with the business of being a doctor and London citizen. And then there he was one day- alive, incongruous, impossible. A ghost, dropped back into my life with all his wonted suddenness and drama. He's been home now for as long as he was gone, and my mind has forgiven him. Indeed, I would not be here now had I been unable to. But there is another part of me- a less rational part- that is still angry.

"Watson. You are distressed."

I shook myself. The north Atlantic spread wide and grey below us. A little late afternoon sun managed to break through the high clouds, but a cold, wet wind whipped up the side of the cliff and blustered into our faces. "March in Cornwall," I'd thought ten days ago, "Would be just the thing." Yes, brilliant idea. Nice and cosy. I'll count myself lucky if I'm ever warm again. Holmes, I am glad to say, was wrapped once again from head to foot in scarves, overcoat and afghan. His gaze lay upon the landscape with its usual intensity, though his eyes were still rimmed with red- an unpleasant reminder of that infernal African root. He is not well, and it troubles me that there is apparently so little I can do for him. My mood had improved not at all in the hour since we left the white cottage overlooking Mounts Bay.  
"Am I?"  
"You deny it?"  
I sighed. "I suppose there's not much point."  
"What is the matter?"  
I wrapped another loop of my scarf around my neck. "Why ask when surely you can deduce as much from the state of my collar or some nuance of posture?"  
He tapped a thumb against his cane handle, considering. "So that you may tell me in your words rather than mine."  
"Very well. I cannot understand why you continue to take such unnecessary risks. I have however already given you my opinion of your experiment and you have apologized. So. I'm sorry I've allowed my agitation to intrude on our afternoon. It will fade soon enough."  
He twitched a grin, then looked at me sharply, then shrugged. "I needed to know."  
"Yes, I know. And now that you do know, perhaps you will remember why you came away on this holiday in the first place?"  
"Because of the frightful fuss you made!"  
"Holmes, for years I have watched your tireless work, your black moods, your self-imposed starvation, your energy and your lethargy, your dangerous reliance on cocai-" He rolled his eyes theatrically, but I did not let him interrupt my train of thought, "-And I know when you need rest. You need to rest, my friend."  
"Then that at least is something I can give you."  
"Oh really? I admit to being a trifle disappointed in the restfulness of the past three days."  
He glanced sidelong at me. "I buried my syringe today."  
At first I thought it a joke, but his jaw was set. I exhaled sharply and shook my head. "Did you?"  
He nodded.  
"What does that mean?"  
"It means that in spite of today, or perhaps because of it, I intend to try to follow your and Dr. Agar's advice." It was accompanied by one of his half-smiles.  
I shook my head again. It was difficult to believe. I couldn't decide if I did.  
"Perhaps you are affecting me, doctor."  
He said this without apparent irony, and the idea that he seriously entertained the notion of giving up the drug on my advice- advice given and ignored many times before- punched a hole in my anger. I no longer had the energy or desire to argue. When he's pursuing a case it's easy to forget that he takes any notice of me, save as sounding-board (he's said as much, in the past), but every now and again he drops his version of a kind word into a conversation, and reminds me why I have not yet simply thrown up my hands in despair.

"Holmes, you said that had you encountered circumstances similar to Sterndale's, you might have done the same as he."  
"Yes."  
"And asked if I might not have, too."  
"Yes."  
I stared out to sea.  
"Well?"  
I had already told him I would not let it ruin our afternoon; indeed, had resolved to keep it to myself, yet the words came. "I almost did, Holmes. Not three hours ago you nearly met a similar fate while I watched. I'm certain I'd have acted as Sterndale did, though in your case it was self-inflicted- as usual- so I'd have had no one on whom to exact my revenge. And for what- your curiosity? Would you expect me to be something other than distressed?" I was aware that Holmes had stepped back from the cliff-edge, though I did not move my eyes from the horizon. "On the other hand, it's one shock after another with you. I should be accustomed to it by now."

He did not reply for some minutes, and I could find no more to say as I stared at the sea. It was nearly dusk, and when he spoke I barely heard it over the wind. "If we leave now we can have a fire at the house before dark." He strode away from the cliff, back to the wind, energetic as always. I followed, a bit dazed, but only too happy to return to the warmth of our temporary home. After a hundred yards or so he stopped and waited for me to catch him up, and thereafter we kept pace together. He did not speak again until later that evening, and I did not intrude upon his thoughts.

A slow drizzle began on our way home, and night had descended on the moor by the time the hearth was laid. Once brandy was poured, pipes lit, and Holmes a little away from the fire holding his violin (though not playing it), it was raining in earnest. I drew the heavy window-curtains and sat down with my pipe, warming my feet before the blaze. Holmes plucked at the strings quietly but did not raise the bow.

"I'll see about supper in a moment."  
"Thank you."

He stared at the fire, then nestled the violin beneath his chin and began to play. Tchaikovsky. I listened for a while, letting the warmth from the fire restore me, then stood and went into the kitchen to find supper.

I was aware that he'd stopped playing, but my back was to the door and I had not heard him approach, and started when he spoke.  
"Watson, tell me more of this extraordinary thing you have said to me."  
I continued slicing the carrot before me. "What thing?  
"This afternoon. On the cliff."  
"Will you set the table? There are plates and silver in the cupboard." He crossed the kitchen and brought out the dishes. "Did I say something extraordinary?"  
"Quite."

I heard him take the dishes into the sitting room and set the table near the fire. I was slicing bread when he returned to fetch tea and the kettle, and then left again to set it on the hob. When he came into the kitchen the third time I had finished. I picked up the laden tray and turned to find him standing just behind me. He held out his hands, and I handed him the tray. I said, "You said something very surprising, but I don't think I did." I couldn't think what he was referring to. I had only explained why I was upset with him. He carried the tray to the sitting-room table and I followed. We served ourselves, and it seemed that he regarded me with more than his usual curiosity.

"About how you would have acted as Sterndale did, in similar circumstances."  
I chewed my cold beef, left over from Mrs. Hudson's excellent Sunday lunch. "What's extraordinary about that?"  
Holmes lifted his brandy glass up to the firelight and watched the shadows play within it. "Until you said it, I had not suspected that the circumstances surrounding us two and the devil's-foot root today could be accounted similar to the ones between Sterndale and Brenda Tregennis."  
"Well, no- You didn't die, thank heaven."  
Holmes set down the glass and turned his eyes on me. His mouth twitched, as it will when he is considering something. "Is that the only difference?"  
He obviously meant something specific, but I couldn’t think what. I buttered a slice of bread, trying to work it out. "I don’t follow.”  
"That is to say, if Brenda Tregennis had only been made temporarily ill by her ordeal, and Sterndale had returned from Plymouth to find her not dead, but recovering, what do you suppose they might be doing now?"

* * *

I wish- which is something I very seldom do- that my skill at description could match my powers of observation, for the succession of changes that overcame John's face as understanding dawned was wonderful and terrible to see. I could not guess the order in which they occurred, but I suspect I bore witness to as many as a half-dozen personal epiphanies. He stared blankly into the middle distance as the hand that held his bread sank slowly to the tabletop. His eyes widened and jaw lowered at the same languid pace. Then his brow creased abruptly and deeply and he shut his mouth with a click. The muscles in his jaw tensed and the fist around his butterknife clenched. Then he inhaled sharply, as if he had suddenly remembered to breathe, and a look of horror mixed with sorrow settled over his features. It was difficult to watch, but was also, I knew, the dawn of a new life.

At last he raised his eyes to mine. The smile I directed at him was intended to be reassuring, but he stood suddenly- dropping his knife with a clatter and knocking the chair over behind him- and rushed out into the rainy night. I dashed after him.  
"Watson, wait!" He did not reply, and was already beyond the circle of light cast by the cottage windows. I couldn't see him in the dark. "Stop- the moor is treacherous!" A foot wrong on this hummocky landscape could mean a broken ankle in seconds. "It's all right, Watson," I shouted, not knowing if he were still in earshot. The rain pattered down around the doorway. "It will be all right."

It was clear to me that pursuing him across the moor would be a mistake. If Watson was in the midst of a crisis of identity there was little I could do or say to alleviate his turmoil. Two decades of friendship had taught me to allow him abundant time to organize his thoughts. He’d likely scoff if I declared it aloud, but I would very much prefer not to hurt him. I returned to the cottage. John would do the same when he was ready.

* * *

An hour and a half later, a sodden John Watson stepped slowly through the front door of the holiday cottage he shared with Sherlock Holmes and shut it behind him. Holmes lifted bow from strings and stood very still, regarding his friend. The kerosene lamp on the mantel flickered. Watson drew a long breath.

"I am forty-six years old, a physician, a Londoner, and I was in the army for years. Through my association with you I have come into contact with all segments of society. I am not particularly naive, and don't think I am stretching the point to call myself a man of the world. Indeed, in my time I have known several men whose turn of mind was so, but never did I think... Holmes, we've known one another for nearly twenty years. How could I not have seen it? Never once recognized... I still find it impossible. You're right, of course you are; I know it now like I know the sun will rise tomorrow. But knowing a thing is not the same as understanding it. It is entirely foreign to my conception of myself."

Watson stepped across to the armchair in the corner and sat down heavily. Holmes had cleared the supper things while he was out tramping the moor, and now laid the violin gently upon the empty dining table. He crossed to the mantel, slid open a tiny box, extracted a match, struck it against the fireplace masonry, and brought it up to the end of the cigarette perched between his lips. Only after he’d drawn and exhaled a deep lungful of smoke did he cast his glance toward his friend. Watson, for his part, kept his eyes resolutely on the fire.

"Every day I miss Mary. I should apologize to you, and I do, but you know as well as I that it makes no difference. Apologizing for the truth won't change it. When we return to London I'll leave Baker Street as soon as possible."  
Holmes tapped a bit of ash into the bronze tray on the mantel. "Why?"  
Watson’s jaw tightened. "Holmes, please."  
"No. Leave for your own sake if you must, but on no account shall you leave for mine. I can imagine no sadder outcome of the insight you have gained tonight."  
Watson blinked at that. "I... appreciate your sympathy but-"  
Holmes cut him off. "Wrong. When have you ever known me to be sympathetic?"  
Watson sighed. "Often enough."  
"Did you never wonder how you sold your practice so quickly, and for more than it was worth?"  
"No, I knew about that. I knew it was your money only a month later. Clearly you wanted me to share your rooms before, but circumstances have changed."  
"My pleasure in your company has not."  
"It's mine in yours that's rather more the issue, Holmes. Will you make me say it? My regard for you does not befit a gentleman."  
"You baffle me, Watson. In all the years of our association your conduct toward me has only ever been that of a gentleman."  
"And I am determined that it should remain so! If I stay at Baker Street, the day will come..."  
"What?"  
"The day will come when either I _must_ leave or go mad. I'd much prefer to leave now."  
"It needn’t come to that."  
"Not if _you_ were the problem, no. You're adept at ignoring your personal feelings- assuming you have any- but you know very well that I'm not. I cannot now pretend to be unaware of the truth."  
"I would not ask you to."  
"And yet you would ask me to remain at Baker Street, unable to..." He shook his head sharply, brows drawn together. "I realize this is an alien concept to you Holmes, so I'll explain it: That situation would cause me pain."

Holmes tossed the end of the cigarette in the fire, then gazed into it. After a moment he said, "Watson. For most of our acquaintance there was always a pretty woman on your horizon, and then there was Mrs. Watson. While the possibility that you might share my inclination had occurred to me, all available evidence indicated otherwise.” Watson made no reply, but Holmes could nevertheless hear his puzzlement. “I have no wish to cause you pain. Quite the opposite. I would ask you to remain at Baker Street- should you wish it- not... unable, as you assumed, but...” He waved an uncharacteristically indeterminate hand in the air, “...Able. To explore aforesaid regard which befits gentlemen. Such as we are.”

Watson’s surprise was so profound he couldn’t stop himself gaping. “Holmes. You can't mean…” He swallowed. “This afternoon you said... you had never loved."

Holmes quirked his small half-smile at the fire. "Until this afternoon I thought I had never _been_ loved. The discovery of my misapprehension has given me much to consider. And reconsider. Before this evening I believed it out of the question that you might return my feelings.”

Holmes watched the fire as he waited for an answer. He waited a good while. He waited so long that when he finally turned to look at Watson he half-expected to find the good doctor asleep.  
Watson just stared at him, mouth slightly open. He said, “The devil’s foot.”  


“Hmm. I think not.”  
“You had a very serious, drug-induced fit less than twelve hours ago. We must consider the possibility that it affected the balance of your mind.”  
“I assure you that while the declaration may be new, my regard for you is not.”

Holmes crossed the distance between fireplace and armchair in two strides. He knelt beside it. He laid one hand lightly upon Watson’s sleeve, but did not look into his face. “You were married. Presumably you have some idea what a man does with someone he loves.”

Watson looked down at the long, thin, pale hand on his arm. He had spent over an hour on the moor fighting Holmes’ astonishing revelation; wrestling with this shocking new facet of himself; despairing of his future; cursing God. And now, Sherlock Holmes…  
“Some idea,” he whispered. He was afraid, but it was nothing to the fear he’d felt that afternoon when it seemed Holmes might be trapped forever within the devil’s foot terror. Compared with that, this fear was more akin to relief. Like the ebb of an anxiety so accustomed he’d long ago stopped recognizing it as anything other than normal life. “Yes.”

“John.”

“Yes.”

“I don’t- … If… ?”

“Yes.”

The grip on his arm tightened.

“Yes.”


End file.
